Lovesick
by chelsie fan
Summary: Charles Carson is lovesick. Elsie Hughes is both the cause of his illness and its cure.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N This story is for olehistorian. Chapter 11 of her **_**February Chelsie Challenge**_**, "Prepared," really got me thinking. In it, Charles at first thinks he might be ill, but he soon realizes he's not physically sick, just lovesick, and the only cure is Elsie. I mentioned to olehistorian that I found the comparison between actual sickness and lovesickness very compelling. She kindly agreed to allow me to expand on her idea. This is the first chapter, with two or three more to follow. I have good portions of those chapters written, but they still need some work. I can't promise when they'll be ready to post, but I hope it will be no more than a few days.**

**Special thanks to evitamockingbird, whose advice on this story proved invaluable. Her suggestions have made and will make this story far better than it would have been without her help. Also, Chapter 23 of her **_**Carson and Hughes, from A to Z**_**, "Work," in which Charles receives a letter from a butler-friend of his that describes how his housekeeper is not nearly as compassionate as Elsie, made me think that not every housekeeper just waltzed so easily into and out of her butler's sickroom. That's something unique to the Chelsie dynamic. The following chapter is my take on the first time Elsie cares for Charles when he's ill. Future chapters will entail Charles's coming to the realization that he's in love with Elsie.**

_January, 1905_

Charles Carson lay ill in bed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been confined to his room: it had been several years, at least. Dr. Clarkson had examined him just that morning and assured him it was only a nasty cold, but the good doctor had also admonished him to rest and to take care of himself, lest it develop into something far worse.

Currently, Charles was waiting for one of the footmen to bring him his dinner. He was therefore surprised when instead, the newly promoted housekeeper arrived to deliver his meal.

"Mrs. Hughes!" he exclaimed upon seeing her, and he sat up, pulling his bedsheets and blankets up to his chin. "You shouldn't be here! This is highly irregular! Surely, a footman … Why, old Mrs. Davies _never_ – "

"I am well aware that my predecessor never set foot in the men's corridor, Mr. Carson, and while a footman might be more _appropriate_ to attend to you, I do not believe that any of those lads possess the necessary wisdom, experience, or common sense to take care of you as _I_ will," she stated firmly as she set the tray on the nightstand next to his bed.

"But … But … " Charles was too shocked to form any sensible objection.

"You don't feel feverish," she remarked, touching her hand briefly to his forehead. "That's a good sign." Taking from the tray a small vial and a spoon, Mrs. Hughes poured out the proper amount of elixir and held the spoon out to him. "Now, open, please," she instructed.

Still reeling from disbelief at her boldness, he couldn't even think to object. Lowering his sheets and blankets just a bit, he obediently opened his mouth, and she gently inserted the spoon. He closed his lips around it, and she removed the spoon. As he swallowed, his face contorted.

"That is positively revolting!" complained Charles. "Is that supposed to make me feel _better_? If I weren't already sick, that … _medicine_ would _make_ me ill!"

"I can see you're going to be a difficult patient," observed Mrs. Hughes, handing him a glass of water, which he accepted gratefully and drank immediately. She took the tray from his night table and arranged it on his lap. "Mrs. Patmore has sent you some beef stew and bread. It's very good, as always. I'd suggest you eat well; it will help you recover your strength. Now, I must be going, but before I leave, is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?" As she said this, she adjusted his pillows and bedclothes slightly, and her forwardness and proximity made him most decidedly _un_comfortable. Mrs. Davies had never so much as peered into his door to check on him when he was ill, and now this presumptuous woman was touching his bed linens! While he was lying in them! He wasn't sure whether he should be affronted or appreciative, but he was undoubtedly embarrassed.

"Erm, no. I'm quite fine," he managed to utter.

"Well, then. I'll let you get some rest now and come back to check on you later." And with that, she departed, leaving a disconcerted butler in her wake.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

While he ate, Charles pondered what had happened.

Since he'd entered into service, the few times he'd been truly ill and restricted to his room, it had always been a footman or hall boy who had attended to him, bringing him what he'd needed and taking away what he hadn't. And those lads had never lingered or done anything beyond the delivery and removal of items and the transmission of messages. But now, a woman – a woman! – had come into his bedroom and had seen him in his pajamas – in his _bed_! She'd _touched_ him and rearranged his bedclothes around him. She'd given him his medicine. No one had done anything like that for him since he was a young boy, when his mother fussed over him. He couldn't help but be unsettled by the intimate nature of it all.

Soon enough, however, Charles's good sense returned, and he realized that Mrs. Hughes was doing him a great kindness. She had plenty to do without having to look after him, and his absence downstairs left her with an even heavier burden. Yet here she was, making even _more_ work for herself by seeing to him. She was also exposing herself to his illness, thus risking becoming infected herself. Regardless of the impropriety of it all, he knew that he should be thankful for that.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Sometime later, Mrs. Hughes returned to collect the tray and to check on him.

"How are you feeling? Any better?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," he answered. "I believe you were correct: the stew and bread have done me some good."

"I'm pleased to hear that. You'll be up and about in no time." She rested her hand tentatively on the back of a nearby chair. "I've a little time before I must get back downstairs. I can keep you company for a few minutes if you'd like," she suggested.

Charles thought for a moment. "I'm … not sure that would be … entirely proper," he said hesitantly.

"Of course," replied Mrs. Hughes. "I understand. I've no desire to impose – or to make you uncomfortable. I'll just be on my way."

He noticed a faint look of hurt in her eyes. It touched him unexpectedly, and he sought to remedy his offense. As questionable as it might be for her just to sit and visit with him in his bedroom, her offer was a kind one, and he would enjoy her company. "But I suppose you might tell me about what's been going on in the house," he offered in conciliation. "I'm afraid I'm rather in the dark."

She smiled, pulled the chair close to his bed, and sat down in it. For the next five minutes, they spoke of household business. For an hour after that, they chatted about anything and everything, both inconsequential subjects and matters of great importance. He found her to be quite a pleasant companion; his initial discomfort eased considerably, and he was pleased to note that her presence no longer agitated him but soothed him instead.

When the time grew late, Mrs. Hughes rose from the chair, returned it to its place, and retrieved the dinner tray and used dishes. "Well, Mr. Carson, I'd best be on my way. Is there anything else I can get for you? A book perhaps? Some more water?"

"No, thank you. I've got a newspaper to read, and my pitcher is nearly full. I think I'm settled for the evening."

"Very well. I'll say good night, then." With a smile and a nod, she turned and headed for the door.

"Just a moment, Mrs. Hughes," he called to her.

She stopped and spun around to face him. "Yes, Mr. Carson? Is there something you need?"

"I … I want to thank you. I do appreciate everything you've been doing for me, and in future, I'll try to be more agreeable. I'm sorry I've been so gruff; I must seem terribly ungrateful." He paused before looking down, ashamed, and explaining quietly, "Only … I'm not accustomed to having someone care for me in this way."

"That's quite all right, Mr. Carson," she told him with a warm smile. "But you must grow accustomed to being cared for, because I don't intend to leave you to manage on your own. And you're most welcome. I hope you'll be well again soon."

"Thank you. As a matter of fact, I'm feeling quite a bit better already."

**A/N Please review if you can spare a few moments. I would like that very much.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Goodness! Thank you all so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows for the first chapter, as well as the reblogs, likes, and kind comments on tumblr. You're very supportive, and I feel quite fortunate. Here's the second chapter, set quite a while after the first, in which Charles has been feeling ill and tries to uncover the nature of his affliction.**

**Special thanks to brenna-louise and evitamockingbird for helping me determine a timeline of events for this chapter and the next one or two. They kindly indulged me in a discussion about precisely when Charles figured out what – and how he came to terms with his feelings. Thanks also to chelsie fan, jr., jr. jr., my youngest daughter, for proofreading this chapter and the last one.**

_March, 1924_

Charles paced in his pantry, clenching and unclenching his hands and wearing a track in the floor. He wondered what was wrong with him. For many months now, he'd been feeling out of sorts – or longer than that, even. Ever since the whole business with Grigg, two years prior, he'd occasionally felt unwell; but near the end of the Season in London last year, his condition had begun to deteriorate considerably, and since the family and staff's return to Yorkshire, he'd been suffering more serious symptoms almost daily.

He debated with himself whether to mention something to Mrs. Hughes. Mostly likely, she'd send him to bed and keep him there to make him rest. That was just what she'd done after his nervous attack, following Dr. Clarkson's instructions, and he'd been annoyed with her for keeping him idle so long afterwards when clearly, he was fully recovered. He'd been ready to get back to work the next day, but she wouldn't hear of it and had kept him in bed for three more days. He wasn't sure that bed rest was what he required right now, but he didn't know what he _did_ require. What if he really _were_ ill? He'd certainly been grateful for her care when he'd had the Spanish flu. He'd been in no condition whatsoever to be up and about, and he was more than willing to rest and allow her to care for him then. He'd had neither the strength nor the inclination to resist when he felt so wretched, and if he were honest, he would have to admit that he'd rather enjoyed her attentions. He definitely didn't feel that awful right now, but his symptoms had been plaguing him for a long time, and they'd been steadily worsening. During the last several months, he'd diagnosed himself with various maladies, including a stomach ulcer, pleurisy, angina, and rheumatic fever.

After considering his predicament for a few minutes longer, he decided his wisest course of action would be to go directly to see Dr. Clarkson. Even if he _were_ to tell Mrs. Hughes of his concerns, her first question would be whether he'd seen the doctor. And if Charles were to answer in the negative, she would surely call and book him an appointment herself or summon the doctor immediately. No, Charles thought it better just to schedule a visit himself for his next half-day.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

_Several days later…_

"And what brings you here today, Mr. Carson?" asked Dr. Clarkson after they'd exchanged pleasantries.

"I've not been feeling quite myself."

"That is the usual reason for a visit to the doctor. But I'm afraid you'll need to be more specific if I'm to help you," Dr. Clarkson prodded gently. "Can you describe your symptoms for me?"

As the doctor began to examine him, Charles answered, "Well, I've had quite a range, really. Sometimes, I feel flushed … or chilled … or clammy. My heart races. I find myself short of breath or lightheaded … dizzy. My hands shake of their own accord. My stomach feels upset. My throat constricts and feels dry. Occasionally, I notice myself perspiring, even though I'm not particularly warm. And at other times, my skin breaks out into gooseflesh, though I'm not at all cold. All of these things happen for no apparent reason. I might be doing nothing out of the ordinary, just sitting at breakfast or walking down the corridor or discussing the menu with Mrs. Hughes, when I suddenly start to feel unwell."

"I see." The doctor placed a thermometer in Charles's mouth and prepared his instruments while he waited for the mercury to rise. When the shiny column of liquid metal stopped moving, he removed the thermometer, read the temperature, and cleaned the glass with alcohol.

"Open your mouth wide, please," requested the doctor before shining a light and looking in Charles's throat. "Thank you. Now, tell me: how long have you been feeling this way?"

"I first noticed the signs near the end of the Season when we were in London last summer for Lady Rose's coming out."

"And can you correlate the onset of these episodes with a particular event? Did something happen while you were in London? Anything that might have upset you? I'm just going to check your eyes, ears, and nose." The physician shone his light and looked in his patient's pupils, ear canals, and nostrils.

"Not that I can think of, no. Everything went smoothly: the ball and all the other events. Mrs. Bute, our London housekeeper, was ill, and we were hard-pressed for a short time, but Mrs. Hughes arrived and sorted everything. And as a matter of fact, near the end of our stay, Lady Grantham treated the staff to an outing, and we had a very enjoyable day by the sea. I hadn't been so keen on the idea at first, but I must admit, it proved to be quite relaxing."

"Breathe in … and out," Dr. Clarkson instructed as he listened to Charles's lungs and heart with a stethoscope. "And how often do you suffer from these symptoms? Would you say these occurrences have increased in frequency or intensity since you first detected them?"

"Yes, I believe they have. At first, I noticed only occasional, mild discomfort. But now … I would say I'm bothered by something almost daily now. Not every single indication I've described – but at least one or two each day, I think. And they're more severe now."

"Raise your arm for me, please, so I can measure your blood pressure. Are you under any unusual strain with your work at the Abbey? Or is there something else that might be troubling you?"

"No, I don't think so," Charles replied as a cuff was wrapped around his arm and inflated, and the doctor felt for his pulse.

"Have you had a falling out with someone? Is there a particular person who makes you uneasy or nervous?" The doctor was finished with his examination and set his equipment aside.

"Not especially."

"The reason I ask, Mr. Carson, is that the symptoms you're experiencing are indicative of stress or anxiety. Do you remember, during the war, when you had your nervous attack?"

"Sadly, yes. I recall only too vividly," admitted Charles.

"Well, everything you've described is consistent with your being under exceptional pressure. Your symptoms are your body's natural responses to excessive strain. You seem otherwise perfectly healthy. I find nothing else out of the ordinary to concern me."

"So, then, what should I do, doctor?"

"To start, I think you should try to isolate the cause of these incidents," recommended Dr. Clarkson. "First, try to think of anyone or anything that might make you uncomfortable or agitated. And if you can't pinpoint a person or thing _that_ way, then take note of what you're doing and who is with you when you _do_ start to feel ill. Once you determine the reason for your uneasiness, you can work to remedy the situation."

"But how?"

"By avoiding or changing the circumstances which cause you difficulty. Or by speaking with the person who unsettles you and resolving the issue that distresses you."

"Well, I shall certainly try, but I'm not sure I shall have much success. I am relieved, however, to know that it's nothing more serious."

"Anxiety can be _very_ serious, as you well know. I'd like to see you again in a few months if you haven't uncovered the basis of your apprehension by then and aren't feeling better. Come back _sooner_ if you feel _worse_. But you're an intelligent man, Mr. Carson, and I have every confidence that before long, you'll have sorted it out."

"Thank you, doctor."

**A/N So now Charles has some homework to do; the doctor has given him his assignment. **_**We**_** know what ails poor Charles, but **_**he**_** hasn't quite pieced it together yet. He will soon, though. Stay tuned! (My proofreader tells me, "It's **_**obvious**_**, Mom: he's sick whenever he's around Mrs. Hughes! That's called 'dramatic irony,' by the way." I'm going to send her English teacher a nice gift!)**

**Also, I don't know exactly what a medical exam in the 1920's might have entailed, but I did do some research into what basic diagnostic instruments were available and what techniques were common. I think the picture I've painted is fairly realistic; it wouldn't have been too different from what goes on at a regular check-up today, except that the tools were much more rudimentary back then. If anyone has more accurate information or knowledge of the history of clinical exams, please let me know, and I'll fix whatever is wrong.**

**Please review if you can spare the time. It would make me very happy.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Wow! Thank you all for the continued support both here and on tumblr! I appreciate every single favorite, follow, review, reblog, reply, comment, and like! Special shout-out to guest reviewers to whom I can't send a personal thank you.**

**Thanks again to olehistorian, whose prompt response gave me the idea for this story. And additional thanks to evitamockingbird and brenna-loiuse, who helped me arrive at a reasonable timing for Charles's realization.**

**Here's the third chapter, in which comprehension takes root.**

_March – April, 1924_

In the weeks following his visit with Dr. Clarkson, Charles did just as he was instructed. The first night after his appointment, he lay in bed and racked his brain, trying to uncover the source of his undue worry. After two hours of fruitless examination, fatigue set in, and he fell asleep.

The next morning, as soon as he went down to his pantry, he procured a small notepad and pencil. He tucked them away in the pocket of his morning coat, intending to record any instance in which he felt poorly. It wasn't long before he had occasion to make a notation.

When he sat down to breakfast, Mrs. Hughes smiled at him and wished him a good morning, much as she did on most other days. As she was arranging her napkin on her lap, the white cloth square slid to the floor and landed between his chair and hers. He leaned down to retrieve it for her, but at the same time, she also was bending to pick it up. When their faces were mere inches apart, they halted their progress and held each other's gaze.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Carson," she apologized, sitting back up.

"That's quite all right. It's no trouble," he assured her as he stooped to recover the dropped linen.

As he returned it to her, her hand covered his when she grasped the napkin. She thanked him; he told her it was nothing at all; and breakfast continued as usual – for everyone except Charles. Charles found that after the napkin episode, he felt a bit flushed and lightheaded. He was sure it was just from the blood rushing to his head when he bent over; but thorough and methodical as he was in everything, he made a note of it as soon as he got back to his pantry.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The next night, he and Mrs. Hughes sat in her sitting room, sipping their sherry. They chatted comfortably about the goings-on at the house, in the village, and in the larger world, and before long, they got to talking about the committee for the war memorial. Charles recounted to Mrs. Hughes the proceedings of the most recent meeting.

"I still don't know why they chose me as head of the committee. Even if they didn't want his lordship, surely there are other, more worthy men in the village," he remarked, humbly but sincerely.

"Give yourself some credit, Mr. Carson! You're an esteemed member of the community. People recognize in you the same virtues that _I_ do. You're honest, intelligent, hard-working, capable, and fair. You're a born leader, and you command respect. But more importantly, you're a good man, Mr. Carson, and I've never met a better one. And on top of it all, you're too modest to know it!" said Mrs. Hughes, smiling at him sweetly and sincerely.

At her frank praise, he felt warm and cold at the same time; perspiration formed on his brow, and tingles prickled up and down his spine. He couldn't bring his eyes to look in hers when he spoke; instead, he focused on his shoes. "Mrs. Hughes, I … Thank you. I find I don't quite know what to say to that."

"You needn't say anything at all. Just know that we all think very highly of you. But I see I've made you uncomfortable. We'll talk no more of it."

The housekeeper deftly changed the subject, and the rest of their conversation was unremarkable, but Charles couldn't help but be affected. He attributed it to the alcohol and his discomfort at being complimented, but he dutifully documented the episode as soon as she'd left.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The following afternoon, Charles climbed the main stairs and made his way across the gallery near the family's bedrooms in search of Lord Grantham. When he passed the nursery, he stopped short. The sight upon which he'd just stumbled stole his breath and pained his heart.

There, in the middle of the room, Mrs. Hughes was crouched down, embracing a disconsolate Miss Sybbie while Nanny stood by helplessly.

"There, there, little lass. Dry your eyes," soothed Mrs. Hughes. "Nanny was wise to come to me, and she's right: I _do_ know how to mend the tear in Dolly's dress. Well, I can't do it myself, but I _do_ know who _can_. You see, Miss Baxter has this magical contraption that can fix almost anything. It's called a sewing machine. And she's a very kind woman. I'm sure if we ask her nicely, she can make Dolly's dress look like new again. She'll even let you watch, I should think."

The young girl brightened considerably at this news and drew away to look at the housekeeper. "Do you really think so?"

"I'm sure of it," Mrs. Hughes promised her. "Now, shall we go and find her?"

"Oh, yes!" cried the tot.

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Hughes," said Nanny softly, relief evident in her voice.

"It's no trouble at all. I'll bring her back in a little while." Mrs. Hughes stood and led the little girl by the hand, while Miss Sybbie dragged Dolly along in her other hand.

Charles quickly scurried away in the other direction, not wanting to be seen. He couldn't understand what had happened; seeing a crying child and a woman consoling her shouldn't cause his lungs and heart to behave abnormally. He supposed it must have been the exertion of climbing the stairs at too rapid a pace. Or it could have been wistful thoughts of the little girl's deceased mother, he reasoned. Perhaps it had been just a swell of affection for the young lass herself, he justified. Nevertheless, he registered the event in his accounting, in case it should prove important.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Two weeks later, Charles had an exhaustive account of his recent health crises. He sat poring over his little notebook late one night in his pantry. He'd just finished his nightcap with Mrs. Hughes, and she'd said good night and left him on his own. Now he was sitting in a chair by his fire, staring at pages of notes.

"… _Sunday, 30__th__ March, morning: singing hymns in church; stomach upset …_

… _Wednesday, 2__nd__ April, afternoon: drinking tea and eating biscuits, discussing houseguests with Mrs. Hughes; mouth dry, throat tight …_

… _Friday, 4__th__ April, evening: assisting Mrs. Hughes with draperies in drawing room; legs weak … _

… _Monday, 7__th__ April, midday: eating luncheon, speaking with staff; head dizzy, mind cloudy …_

… _Thursday, 10__th__ April, night: walking in corridor with Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore, discussing Daisy's studies; hands shaking, skin clammy … "_

Initially, he could make no sense of his entries. His symptoms occurred at different times of day. They happened when he was engaged in a wide variety of different activities. There was no particular issue or concern that tied them all together. As he scanned down the list one last time, he noticed with a tremendous shock that all the events did share one common factor.

"Mrs. Hughes!" he cried when she appeared suddenly and unexpectedly in his doorway. His voice was quite a bit higher than usual, due to his surprise and discomfort. He shoved his notebook into his pocket, jumped up, and fled to the furthest reaches of the room, backing into the corner behind his desk, pressing his body to the wall, and flattening his palms against the surface.

Mrs. Hughes looked at him strangely, clearly concerned by his odd behavior. "I came back to remind you about the furniture delivery tomorrow. They'll be bringing the final pieces for Lady Edith's room," she informed him.

His mind worked frantically to form a sensible reply. A weak, "Ah. Yes. Of course. I remember," was all he could muster.

"Mr. Carson, you don't look well. Are you feeling all right?" she asked as she crossed the room and advanced on him.

"Erm … Just a bit tired, I think. I'm sure it's nothing," he tried to convince her.

But she wouldn't be deterred. "It is _not_ nothing," she insisted while standing entirely too near. She laid a hand on his cheek. "Your face is warm and flushed." Then she rose on her toes to look closely into his eyes, so closely that he could feel her breath on his face. "And your eyes are glassy." Finally, she pried one of his hands from the wall and held it gently. "Mr. Carson, you're trembling!"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hughes, really." He tried once again to put her off. He had to get her to leave. He couldn't bear to be in her presence just now. She was too close and too insistent and too …

"You are _not_ fine! You march straight up to bed, right this instant, young man! I'll take care of everything down here. And I don't expect to see you downstairs tomorrow morning if you're not completely better. I'll come and check on you if you're not at breakfast."

Her tone told him she would tolerate no refusal, and he thought it advisable to make his escape at this time. "Yes, I think I _will_ head up now. I'm sure I'll be myself again after a good night's rest. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

"Good night, then, Mr. Carson. Sleep well, and feel better."

He removed his hand from hers and made his way around her, but not without brushing lightly against her shoulder and catching the scent of her dusting powder. He retreated hastily from his pantry and raced up the stairs to his room. Once he'd closed the door and caught his breath, he sank heavily onto his bed to think.

Charles had discovered that what was upsetting him was not at all a "what" but a "who." The common thread was not a subject or an event but a person. But it made no sense. Dr. Clarkson had asked him if he'd had a disagreement with someone or if there was someone who irritated him. He'd assumed that the doctor was referring to someone unpleasant, someone he disliked. But that certainly wasn't the case with Mrs. Hughes. She wasn't unpleasant at all; she was the most pleasant person he knew. And he surely didn't dislike her; he liked her a great deal. As a matter of fact he … he … he _loved_ her. Heaven help him: he loved her.

**A/N So now that he's figured it out, what's he going to do about it? Well, we all know **_**what**_** he's going to do, eventually, because we've watched THE SCENE from the CS, millions of times, collectively. But I'm interested, for the purposes of this story, in how he arrives at that decision and what he does **_**before**_** that. Stay tuned for more! In the meantime, please leave a review, if you'd be so kind. It would make my day to hear from you.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Thank you all for your encouragement! Your support for this story has delighted me more than I can say.**

**I can't fool myself to imagine that people are holding their breaths for an update, but I still feel I should apologize that it's been so long. Real life, you know. My daughter told me her teacher has a poster that made her think of me. It says, "Normally, I try to take one day at time, but lately, several of them have been attacking me at once." That's about the size of it. So I will **_**try**_** to be more regular in my updates, but I can't promise anything more than a sincere **_**effort**_**.**

**This chapter is sort of a stream-of-consciousness detailing Charles's rambling thoughts. He knows he's in love, but the poor man has no idea how to proceed, and he comes up with some pretty ridiculous ideas in the process of trying to figure it out. His journey takes him through shock and panic, denial, annoyance, terror and near despair, resignation, and finally, inspiration. I've had a little fun here at our dear butler's expense. I give you … Charles "Übergoober" Carson:**

_April – September, 1924_

In the weeks and months that followed his epiphany, Charles was in misery. He endured a raging vortex of swirling, crushing, rapidly changing emotions. He felt so lost and wretched that he sometimes wished he _were_ seriously ill, because being in love was a thousand times worse than any bodily sickness he'd ever endured.

His first reaction was a combination of shock and panic. "_Oh, my God!" _he thought_._ "_I'm in love with Mrs. Hughes! What shall I do? I've no idea how to manage this!"_ And the very first day after that fateful night when he became fully aware of his feelings was a trying one indeed. He wanted nothing more than to avoid the housekeeper completely, but he knew that would be impossible. After his strange behavior the previous night, she would surely worry that he might be ill, and she would seek him out if he tried to evade her. He briefly considered feigning illness and cloistering himself in his bedroom, but then he realized she would undoubtedly come to him and hover over him all day; and it would be far more dangerous to have her flitting about his bedroom and babying him than simply to have her following him about or checking on him during the course of his work. He did manage to get through that first day somehow, but it required a colossal effort for him to convince Mrs. Hughes of his satisfactory physical health and emotional well-being when in truth, he felt neither fit nor calm.

After a day or two, his initial astonishment abated, and Charles sometimes found himself in a state of denial. On occasion he could almost convince himself he was not in love. _"This is utter nonsense! Foolishness!"_ he would tell himself. _"I'm a __**butler**__, for goodness' sake! A sworn bachelor! And she's a __**housekeeper**__, content to remain a spinster. She and I are colleagues. We've worked together for decades. We're perfectly comfortable in our current state. We're servants, and there's no time or place in our lives for romance. And besides all that, we're far too old for any sort of starry-eyed rubbish. It can't possibly be love."_ But no matter how vehemently he persisted, a fond look, a sweet smile, a gentle touch, or a soft word from his beloved would render him helpless, refuting those assertions.

Often, when he was compelled to admit his feelings, he became annoyed with his situation. He would huff and pout, storming about his pantry or his bedroom like a child throwing a tantrum, asking himself, _"Why me? Why her? Why now? Bloody hell! Why couldn't I have taken a fancy to the baker's girl and married her when I was a young lad? Or I might have eloped with the scullery maid when I was just a footman. I could even have fallen in love with Mrs. Hughes herself – __**Elsie**__ – when she first arrived as a new maid. We could have left service then, when we were both much younger, and settled down … perhaps had a family. That would have made more sense. That's how it __**should have**__ happened. But no, I must always do things the __**hard**__ way. I've spent decades devoted to the family and to my work, only to fall slowly in love with the woman who's been right beside me the whole time! My life was simple before and my path straightforward, but this complicates matters terribly. And what do I know of love, anyway? Damn and blast! What a frightful bother! This is __**most**__ inconvenient!"_

Charles also suffered random bouts of terror, during which he was crippled by anxious thoughts: _"No! I can't do this! This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me! What if I never muster the courage to tell her how I feel? What if I __**do**__ tell her? What if I __**don't**__ tell her, but still she manages to figure it out? What if she already knows? What if __**everyone**__ knows? What if she doesn't return my feelings? What if she __**does**__? What if I lose her? My life is ruined!"_ These fears manifested themselves most potently at night and robbed him of precious and much-needed sleep.

After suffering weeks and months of such agony, Charles resigned himself to the fact that he must _do_ something. Continuing on in such a state was unacceptable, so he turned his attention to how to resolve the matter. His first ideas were ridiculous ones indeed: _"I could run away and disappear forever – leave and never come back. Or perhaps I might make her angry with me – drive her away. Maybe I should try to avoid her as much as possible and simply ignore what I feel. I wonder if I ought to carry on as usual and pretend nothing is out of the ordinary. Would it be possible to try to fall '__**out**__ of love'? Falling __**in**__ love was so easy; I didn't even know it was happening. Surely with some effort, I can make myself __**stop**__ loving her."_ But he didn't entertain any of these any of these "possibilities" for very long before he was forced to acknowledge that they were all _im_possibilities.

Ludicrous notions now discounted, Charles tried in earnest to arrive at a more reasonable, feasible solution. He needed to let Mrs. Hughes know how he felt about her. Even if she didn't return his amorous sentiments, he was no longer content to work next to her every day, to have her so close yet just out of reach. His heart – and body – would never rest easy. He decided he must press his suit with her.

His quandary now was how best to proceed, for Charles was woefully inexperienced in the art of courting. His last (and only) experience wooing a woman was with Alice, and the outcome of _that_ endeavor had been disastrous. Moreover, the heady, fledgling romance of two young, naïve, eager stage performers bore little resemblance to the profound, enduring devotion he dreamed might exist between two older, wiser, more self-possessed household servants: a love born of mutual respect and singleness of purpose … a love deepened, broadened, and strengthened over a score of years.

Feeling sorely inadequate to the task, he turned his attentions to the question of making known his intentions. He listed his options in his mind – and subsequently rejected each one: _"Can I buy her sweets or flowers? I suppose so, but those seem such a paltry offering. Shall I invite her to tea or dinner in the village? No, that's hardly anything special; we have tea and dinner together every day. Ought I to ask her to walk out with me? I think not. If the purpose of walking out is to get to know one another, we are well past 'walking out.' What if I were to flirt with her? Pay her little compliments, hint at something romantic? 'Make eyes' at her, so to speak? Take her hand … or offer my arm? Bah! I'd just say or do something silly; I've never been exactly charming. Might I buy her a book of poetry or write her a love letter? No, that's no good, either. If I'm going to declare myself, she deserves to hear it in my own words, not someone else's. And my words ought to be spoken in her presence, not scrawled on some sheet of paper. Perhaps I __**will**__ simply confess my love. I'll tell her how precious she is to me … beautiful and kind and perfect ... how incredibly happy she makes me. But that will ruin everything if she doesn't love me, too. She'll refuse me gently, but she'll always pity me, and things will never again be the same between us. Oh, how can I do __**any**__ of these things? Truly, I would like to say nothing at all – just walk into her sitting room right now, close the door, take her in my arms, hold her in a passionate embrace, and kiss her until I can no longer bear such happiness. But that would be ungentlemanly and unfair to her; she would never welcome such a bold demonstration. If proclaiming my affections with words would be imprudent, doing so with uncouth advances would be a hundred times worse!"_ Having summarily rejected each of his own suggestions, Charles was no better off than before he'd begun, only more agitated.

During this time, these excruciating months of uncertainty and indecision, Charles tried to keep his interactions with Mrs. Hughes as normal as possible. They still had their little squabbles and reconciliations, but the disagreements pained him far more than ever before, and the ensuing resolution of their differences delighted him immensely. He knew that he sometimes took a harsh tone with her when they discussed the location of the war memorial or Mrs. Patmore's nephew or Daisy's studies; and this was due in part to his frustration over being unable to express his love. Whenever his momentary irritation dissipated, however, he tried to adopt a much gentler tone, telling Mrs. Hughes how he hated to be at odds with her and how badly he wanted them to be in harmony. Fortunately, as always, she understood and accepted his roundabout apologies and chose never to hold his misdeeds against him.

Unfortunately, after months of deliberation, Charles was no closer to finding a path forward. He had nearly given in to despair, but then the seed of an idea took root with the aid of an unwitting Mrs. Patmore, who had inherited some money and had decided to buy a house. She sought his advice and Mrs. Hughes's, too, and the three of them visited the cottage that Mrs. Patmore intended to purchase. When Mrs. Patmore stepped out for a moment and he stood alone in the sunlit kitchen of a cozy cottage with the woman he loved, images flooded his mind, and inspiration blossomed. It was the perfect plan: Charles would ask Mrs. Hughes to buy a house with him.

**A/N I'm not completely thrilled with this chapter, but I couldn't stare at it any longer or figure out how to make it any better. We have to move on to the "business venture," the "our little dream" scene, and the actual proposal. Please leave a review if you're so inclined. Thanks in advance.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Once again, I must thank you for all the tremendous support, patience, and encouragement you've all shown me during the course of this story. I'm so grateful.**

**I'm sorry it's been so long between updates. Real life, as you all know, has its responsibilities. The next chapter should come fairly quickly, though. It's mostly written and just needs to be reworked a little. In the meantime, here's chapter 5.**

_September – November, 1924_

Charles was rather proud of himself. Suggesting the joint purchase of a house was a very clever idea, he thought. It was an indication to Mrs. Hughes that he trusted her implicitly and that he valued her wisdom. He was offering something that would provide them with a connection to one another beyond Downton Abbey and their jobs, something that would entail a serious commitment to each other, something that would link their futures together irrevocably. Charles had never considered his own retirement or a life outside Downton Abbey until he'd come to realize he was in love with Mrs. Hughes. Once he'd become painfully aware of that fact, however, he'd thought a great deal about his remaining years, and one thing was certain: he didn't want to imagine his future without her in it.

Though buying a house together was a good starting point, it was not an overt declaration of love or anything at all romantic. He would couch it as an "investment," a "business venture." He did wonder if she might divine his true intention, and upon consideration, he almost hoped and expected she would. If she _were_ to discern his underlying motive and were _not_ amenable, she could delicately decline his offer without too much discomfort for either of them. But if she approved of the idea and accepted … well, then he would be the luckiest, happiest man ever to walk the good Earth.

Now that Charles had formulated his plan, he had only to enact it. In the end, he managed to put forth his "suggestion" with halting, breathless words and nervously twitching fingers as he stood awkwardly just inside the door of her sitting room at the exceedingly inconvenient moment between Lady Edith's disappearance and the ringing of the gong. Mrs. Hughes didn't explicitly agree in that very instant, but her shy smile, eager eyes, and joyful tone of voice when she dismissed him to "go and ring that gong" were enough to assure him that she found his proposal appealing. And later that evening, when they spoke further, he was thrilled to see that she seemed nearly as hopeful about the possibility as he himself had become. Having secured her agreement and the promise of a future with her, he fell asleep that night with joy in his heart and a contented smile on his lips.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Charles was happy, and he spent the next several weeks excitedly seeking out properties and tirelessly researching possibilities. While the family were away on a shooting holiday, he and Mrs. Hughes visited several prospective houses and spent many late nights talking of their investment. They never spoke openly about marrying and living together in the house, but he thought she must have some fair idea that this was his ultimate aim. He, for his part, could almost pretend he _had_ proposed and she'd accepted, and it made him proud to go looking at houses with her in their free time and to pore over papers while sitting close together, all alone, late at night. It was wonderfully intimate. He had all he could do to keep himself from offering his arm as they walked together from one cottage to the next, to stop himself from placing his hand at the small of her back as he ushered her through a doorway, to prevent himself from resting his hand on her shoulder as he leaned over her to examine some papers. It was sheer torture for him to keep reminding himself that they _weren't_ engaged – not _yet_.

Ironically, now that Charles had determined what to do about his lovesickness and had proceeded with his scheme, his symptoms did not abate, but instead they increased. He was more anxious and agitated around Mrs. Hughes than he ever had been before. He didn't mind, however, because he now had reasonable assurance that his cure might be effected in the foreseeable future, and his anxiety and agitation were now almost pleasant.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

So blissful and so enthusiastic had he been during that time that he'd neglected to notice Mrs. Hughes's apprehension whenever they'd spoken of buying a house. Consequently, on that fateful evening when he entered her sitting room with a decanter of special wine, identified the house on Brouncker Road as their most promising prospect, suggested they make an offer, and proposed a toast, he was completely shocked when Mrs. Hughes confessed that she couldn't contribute towards the purchase of a house with him because she'd spent all her money on her sister's care. He was grateful for Mr. Bates's interruption, because he was having tremendous difficulty processing all the thoughts that were tormenting his mind and all the feelings that were ravaging his heart. After Mr. Bates came and left, conversation centered for a few minutes on the subject of Anna's incarceration, and then Charles excused himself.

That night, Charles didn't sleep, because a new kind of sickness overtook him, one whose symptoms included sorrow, shame, regret, disappointment, and even more love than ever before. He felt sorry that Mrs. Hughes had had to bear such a burden all by herself for so many years. He was ashamed of his himself for having been so absorbed in his own enthusiasm about their new endeavor that he'd overlooked her misgivings; no matter how well she'd tried to hide them, he should have been more sensitive. He regretted not having been more supportive of her in the past, more caring. He was disappointed that she'd never felt she could confide in him until she had absolutely no other choice. But most of all, he was overwhelmed by the increase in love he felt for her; he'd never loved her more than he did in that instant when she reluctantly and humbly revealed what she'd been doing for her sister and he'd finally appreciated the depth of her selflessness and devotion. His insomnia proved fruitful, however, because he arrived at two important conclusions.

The first was that he loved Mrs. Hughes more than ever before and could never be happy without her. His "investment property" ruse had failed, but that was of little consequence now, because Charles was done with scheming and plotting. Mrs. Hughes had been painfully candid with him, and she deserved nothing less in return. He wanted to marry her, and he was ready to say so unequivocally.

His second conclusion was that she might very likely be agreeable to such a proposal. After all, she'd gone along quite willingly with his "business venture" until she no longer could. She'd admitted that she thought it was a "nice idea" and had assured him that she'd enjoyed what she called "our little dream." She'd even seemed disappointed that their venture had come to an end. If the idea had never appealed to her, she would have said so from the start. The fact that Mrs. Hughes had shared his dream gave Charles the courage to devise and implement another, bolder, more forthright plan: he would buy the house for both of them, and he would propose marriage.

**A/N Reviews are awesome. Please? And thank you!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N Here we have the last chapter. I hope you like it. Thank you all for sticking with me throughout. Your support has been amazing. Special thanks to olehistorian, whose "Prepared," chapter 11 of her February Chelsie Challenge, (do check it out if you haven't read it!) inspired the idea for this story. Thanks also to evitamockingbird, who encouraged me to expand this beyond the original one-shot that I'd planned.**

_December, 1924_

And so he did it: he bought the house, included _both_ their names on the deed, and proposed. On Christmas Eve, in a house bustling with activity, Charles called his beloved away from the festivities, led her through the deserted downstairs corridors to his quiet pantry, and proposed _marriage_. Not a property investment, not a business venture, but marriage, plain and simple, in no uncertain terms: " … I am asking you to marry me." And she accepted. Not just _accepted_; she said "of course." Not simply "yes" … but "_of course_." As if there had never been any doubt, never any other possible outcome. Despite his uncertainty and her obvious surprise, she had no need to weigh her answer.

She called him an "old booby," and though the epithet might have been construed negatively in another context, he'd never heard sweeter words in his life. He couldn't have been more affected if she'd called him "my love." She'd uttered those precious syllables with such tenderness and intimacy that he thought his heart might burst. A housekeeper would never be so bold as to identify her butler in such a way, but a woman might lovingly refer to her man with such a description. He might be an old booby, but he was _her_ old booby – and he was enormously proud to be so.

Then she told him she'd thought he'd never ask. Evidently, she'd been contemplating the possibility and hoping for it for some time. While he felt tremendous relief and immense pleasure at finally having voiced his love, he did feel a twinge of regret at not having done so sooner. His lament, however, was short-lived in the face in the greatest joy he'd ever known.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

_December, 1925_

Charles Carson sat ill in bed, and for the first time ever, Elsie Carson was nursing him back to health. _Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper,_ had countless times sat by the bedside of _Mr. Carson,_ _the butler_, her dearest _friend_ and most respected _colleague_, dabbing his fevered brow, administering vile-tasting medicine, fluffing his pillow, adjusting his blankets, and even helping him to eat and drink when he had been too weak to do it himself. But today, _Elsie, the wife,_ fussed over _Charles, her_ _husband_, and this change in name and status made all the difference in the world.

"How are you feeling, dear?" Elsie inquired as she set down on the night table a tray laden with hot broth, toast with marmalade, and tea with honey.

Charles, who had been confined to bed for three days with a bothersome cold, closed his book, took off his reading glasses, and set both on his lap. "Much better," he replied, "now that you're here." His voice was even deeper than usual, and his nasal congestion made his spoken m's sound like b's and turned his n's to d's.

"Well, you do look better than you did this morning," she observed as she bent to kiss his the top of his head and sat down on the edge of the bed next to him. "Have you been resting since I left?"

"Yes, dear," he answered obediently. "I've just been reading my book."

"That's my good lad," she said, pinching his cheek. Elsie picked up his book, chuckling. "But you've read only to the third page!" she pointed out.

"Well … I've been thinking, too," he admitted.

"Oh? And just what compelling thoughts have occupied you all day?"

"Just one," Charles told her simply. "You."

"Oh, go on! Flatterer! You can't have spent the entire time thinking about me."

"Fine. Suit yourself. Don't believe me. But it's true." After a pause, he changed the subject. "I take it all is well downstairs?"

"As well as can be – in your absence. The house hasn't fallen apart yet. But I must get on now." She stood, took his spectacles and book, set them on the nightstand, and situated the tray on his lap. "I'll come back in a bit to check on you and collect the tray."

"Thank you, love, for always taking such good care of me. You do know how much I love you, don't you?"

"I do. And I love you, too. Now, eat and drink, rest up, and feel better. I'll see you in a little while." She rested her hand lovingly on his chest as she leaned down to kiss his cheek before leaving.

Marriage afforded Elsie privileges she had not formerly enjoyed. She took unprecedented yet delightful liberties, and Charles happily welcomed these new attentions. Checking his temperature no longer consisted of a purely practical touch but now involved soft strokes and gentle caresses all over his face. Now, in addition to pressing a cool cloth to his forehead when he was feverish, she pressed sweet kisses there as well. Previously, when she'd tucked his blankets more securely around his middle or plumped the pillows beneath his head, she'd respectfully pulled away as soon as her aim was accomplished; but now, her hands and arms lingered in a tender embrace. And now, instead of sitting uncomfortably all night in a chair next to his bed in his tiny room in the men's corridor in the attics, she changed into her nightclothes, slipped under the blankets, and curled up next to him – in their _shared_ bed, in their _shared_ room in the South Gallery of the Abbey. The butler decided he much preferred the loving ministrations of a devoted wife to the necessarily restrained ones of a kind but professional housekeeper.

Truth be told, he wasn't too terribly ill on this occasion – just sick enough that a conscientious housekeeper and doting wife had quarantined him in bed with the dual purpose of isolating him from others and forcing him to rest. While he recuperated, nibbling his toast and sipping his broth and tea, he had plenty of time for reflection. Charles's hazy mind, influenced perhaps by mild fever, pressure in his head, and irregular rest, drifted to thoughts of love. He thought back to the time when he'd first begun to realize he was falling – or already _had__ fallen_ – in love with Elsie. From the time she'd arrived at Downton, he'd liked her, respected her, and admired her. There could be no disputing that she was an excellent worker; she'd proven to be hard-working, conscientious, and reliable. Her personal attributes were equally irrefutable; she was kind, intelligent, and undeniably attractive. But after having his heart broken as a young man, Charles had been cautious and fearful. He'd tenaciously guarded his fragile, wounded heart and had intended never to give it away again. Yet fate had a way of thwarting a man's designs when he planned too deliberately; that is to say, fate ... and a beautiful, warm-hearted Scottish housekeeper. For patiently, gently, lovingly, she'd mended his heart until it was whole and strong again. And no sooner had she healed it than he'd found himself surrendering it to her. Only … it had taken him some time to determine exactly what was happening.

At first, he'd thought himself physically ill. But after some careful consideration, Charles had realized that his symptoms plagued him most viciously when he was in the presence of a certain woman and that even just thinking of her tended to bring on milder symptoms. Finally, he'd come to understand that the true nature of his ailments was not physiological but emotional, and he'd stumbled on the correct diagnosis: lovesickness. He'd been shocked and dismayed to discover that he, Charles Carson, the stoic butler of Downton Abbey, was hopelessly lovesick. The agent who had transmitted this disease to him was Elsie Hughes, and he'd known at once that the only cure would be Elsie Carson.

Once he'd determined the true nature of his condition, the path to recovery had also become clear: vaccination. He'd known about vaccination, because all children in England had been required to be vaccinated against smallpox; he himself had received the vaccine as an infant. He'd understood how it worked: controlled exposure to a small dose of the disease would cause only mild symptoms and allow a person to build up a tolerance, a resistance. After that, the patient's body would be prepared to withstand the most virulent attack and suffer no ill effects. In a sense, the _cause_ was also the _cure_. He'd hoped that the same course of action might prove efficacious in the case of lovesickness … _if_ Mrs. Hughes were amenable.

He'd expected that their first shy caresses and kisses – should she allow them – would still make him light-headed, red-faced, and quick-pulsed. But he'd hoped that in time, even the boldest touches and deepest kisses, even the most intimate activities in their marital bed (the very notion had made him weak!) would result in only peaceful contentment and comfortable, healthy satisfaction.

Knowing he would suffer all his life long if he did not act, he'd taken it into his hands to effect his own recovery: he'd proposed to Mrs. Hughes. And in those excruciating seconds before her acceptance, he'd felt a full-force onslaught of his ailment; every symptom had assailed him at once. But after she accepted, his symptoms had begun ever so gradually to abate. It's true, when she reached out to touch his arm, his stomach had been tied in knots. And later that night, when he kissed her hand, his heart had skipped several beats. The following morning, when she graced him with her most radiant smile, his face had felt as if it were on fire. When she leaned close and wished him a pleasant day and a happy Christmas, he'd broken into a cold sweat and had felt chills on the back of his neck. That evening, when she stroked one of his cheeks with her hand and softly kissed his other cheek, he'd become so dizzy he'd feared he might fall over. A week later, when he first told her how much he loved her and she so openly returned his sentiments, his knees had nearly failed him. Seconds later, when he held her and kissed her for the first time, he'd stopped breathing entirely. Several weeks later, when he slid the ring onto her finger in church, his hands had shaken so violently that it had taken a supreme effort not to drop the tiny gold band. And on their wedding night, when every single outward manifestation of his sickness made itself known, he'd been certain that he would never recover but remain ill for the rest of his life.

In the weeks that followed, however, he'd experienced the restoration of his health. Her looks, smiles, caresses, and sweet words had begun to have a salutary effect. He'd felt stronger instead of weaker. He could kiss her and embrace her without feeling nauseated. He could make love to her without hyperventilating or having chest pains.

His wife's amorous ministrations would never fail to affect him profoundly. How could any man be completely immune to his wife's fond attentions? But it was no longer an agonizing, painful reaction but a most pleasant, beneficial one. No longer did he ache for a love which he did not yet possess; now he yearned for _more_ of a love which irrevocably _did_ belong to him. And for that transformation, Charles would be eternally grateful. With that thought in his head and a smile on his face, he set aside his tray and nodded off to sleep.

He awoke some time later to find Elsie retrieving his tray.

"I'm sorry, darling. I didn't mean to wake you," she apologized as she lifted it.

"Oh, that's all right. I'm glad you're here," he told her.

"Well, you can go back to sleep. I'll just take this down to … _ah_ … _ah_ … _choo_!" And she unleashed a mighty sneeze.

"Elsie! You've caught my cold! No doubt from working too hard, doing both your job and mine – _and_ taking care of your feeble husband!"

"Don't be silly. I'm perfectly fine," insisted the stubborn housekeeper.

"You are _not_ fine! You set that tray down this instant, young lady! Put your nightclothes on and get in this bed."

"Really, Charles!"

"When I'm ill and you order me to bed, I'm expected to comply. But when you're unwell and I ask you to rest, you dismiss be as being silly?" he questioned with a raised eyebrow.

"All right," she conceded. "Just let me take this tray downstairs and tell everyone where I'll be."

"Nonsense! Someone will check on us shortly if you don't return. They know where to find us –_unfortunately_."

"Very well. I must admit, I _am_ feeling a bit tired. And a little weak."

"Aha! You see?"

Elsie set the tray down on the dresser, swiftly changed into her nightdress, and climbed into bed next to her husband. Two sniffles and a cough later, she was fast asleep in Charles's arms. Someday, he would explain to her how absolutely vital she was to his well-being. But not today; first, he would pamper her and fuss over her until her own health was restored.

**A/N Please leave a review if you can spare a moment. I always like to know what you think, and I appreciate your sharing your comments.**

**For anyone who's interested, I probably won't be posting much for a while, besides maybe an occasional one-shot, because I'm working on a longer project. I plan to have most or all of it written before I start posting, so it will likely be a while. I hope to have it ready in a few months' time. In the meantime, if you're so inclined, please do send me PM's or tumblr mail at any time about anything! I just love to talk with all of you.**


End file.
